History of the Black Wind Marauders
See also: The Black Wind Marauders Turn 0 }|turn00| The crude metal ships ripped through the air, the wind screaming against the sails. Grenzgänger Gerrik and the last remaining squad of the RocBlut Clan fled, half a dozen windeater ships devouring the distance between them. Hooks sinked into the ships hull, "Deathpullers!" They screamed in panic, a sudden yank obliterating and concussing the ship into the rock formation below. Gerrik pulled himself from the wreckage, battered and covered with dirt and blood. The crash site completely surrounded by the pursuing clan. He had never seen so many in one place: marauders, ravagers, scavengers...murderers. The surviving members of the clan seized from every angle, their arms held; systemically gutted one after another from groin to chest, their entrails spilling like coins from a pouch and steaming In the cold. They beat their weapons against there violent makeshift war plate and leather, bodies decorated with ash, stone powder, and blood. They streamed blood in the air for their gods. Human, but to call them such implied a sense of humanity. Surrounding the Grenzgänger they screamed their war songs, seemingly keeping him alive, the crowd split as a figure made its way through them. They chanted "RATHRAK, COLLECTA OF DA FORGOTTEN, OOS EARNY PLATES STRETCH DA SKY, DA LUCKY DUCK, KIN-", appearing splendid in copper and gold plate, the figure raised his hand and all movement ceased; fear emanating. Grabbing Gerrik by the throat, behind a golden mask he spoke, "You have denied our unification, the death throes of your clan will begin our new dominion, your memory will be ash. I have combined all brothers as fingers across the land, and those fingers into a hand, which I alone make into a fist." Crushing the Grenzgänger's windpipe, "I have spilt more blood than you have pumped in a lifetime, your last look will be the first glimpse of our great people, The BlackWind". }} Turn 1 }|turn01| Rathraq stood massive in war plate, yet solemn in demeanor, overlooking the celebration of his people from the balcony of the citadel tower high above. Within the walls of the citadel down below they beat drums and chanted songs, brothers bested each other in feats of strength and talent. Drinks were had, Gods honored, and despite the face value savagery of the blackwind, lovers would dance and embrace each other to relish in relief to their harsh existence. If only for today, a people unified, most marauders never heard the temporal word they were searching for on their lips: peace. Rathraq felt pride, today would be the first time he would address the blackwind as a nation. Trained in the arena as a boy, nervousness was unfamiliar to him, normally he exuded confidence. "I'm not sure if I'd want to know what could trouble one as you, my son," An old man said from behind. Rathraq laughed beneath his mask, like the growl of a lion, "Spirit Father, it is a pleasant surprise to see you." Rathraq liked to let the Spirit Father believe out of respect that it was possible for him to sneak up from behind, which of course, it was not. Lowering his head, Rathraq spoke, "All we've ever known is violence and strength. it is right to honor the gods, but i hold hope there will be a day with no need to spill so much blood, and yet wonder if that same blood runs too deep in us." Adorning a dark robe, the Spirit Father placed a hand on Rathraq's shoulder, his eyes both ancient and kind, "You've used your might in every day of your life, the strength on your shoulders has brought you great fortune. However...for you? No, I do not believe it will end" Silence passed between them, the Spirit Father stretched his hand over the balcony, across the multitudes. "But your legacy, your foundation! It will build a day beyond you, your roots will grow them strong and they will rest under your shade in the strength of your branches." Before responding, Rathraq folded his great arms and looked all around the view. "Do you rehearse these things, you old bastard?" They laughed loudly together, Rathraq placed his mighty hands on the brittle mans shoulders, "Thank you Spirit Father, pray for me, I will be strong for my people, and by our strength they will know us, they will know me.... now I must go, it is time." Develop power x 2 Develop income x 1 Develop culture x 1 Results +21 (81-60), +21 (81-60) +3 (63-60) +32 (92-60) As Rathraq raised his fist, the congregation fell into silence. “BlackWind!” he shouted, his voice resounding off the capital walls. “Forgotten! I am your redeemer! It is by my hands you will rise from the ashes of this world!” They cheered and roared. He looked out over them. The BlackWind. One crew now, under one command. They began chanting, and he raised his hand again for silence. “It gladdens me to see us as one. United. But do not, my friends, dwell in this revelry. It will take hold of you, and you will resent its absence.” He took a slow glance at the Spirit Father over his shoulder. He clenched his fists, flexing his arms on each side of him as he turned back. “Our way may begin and end with revelry, but it is made with power. And blood! We will claim our places together at the table of the Gods!” There was another roar, and the Spirit Father hung his head. Strength understands strengths, it is said. (+6 Culture) In the coming month, the stockpiles swelled. Under Rathraq’s command, the foresting and mining expeditions expanded, bringing in lumber and iron for ships. As the time of peace dragged on, and the ale never ran out. The citadel fermenters were full, and the new farms surrounding the walls brought in more wheat than they could possibly use for brewing. The BlackWind were not accustomed to fresh bread, nor were they skilled in making it, resulting in thick, unrisen slabs. Still, they delighted in it, and it grew them stronger. (+9 Power, +4 Income) {Your home province has reached a new level of development (20+). Development difficulty there increases to 65.} }} Turn 2 }|turn02| In the dark of the morning, the BlackWind Citadel was still recovering from the harrows of celebration. It's pointed and jagged towers and gates were both illuminated by torch light. Outside however, near the dry docks of the citadel Windeater fleet, Kaptan Tiddskriff was assembling his finest crew. "Awlright boys, com' on u lot! We've got a top ordah today, dis ones a royal address! right from the lovely shiny duck himself isn't it? AAAAAATTENTION!" Aboard the Windeater Ship Himmel-Vhalp, (Ancient Maraud speak for Sky-Puppy), Kaptan Tiddskriff's 12 man crew scrambled right in line. Their eyes nearly vibrated in their heads from the inpatient need to ride the wind. Even so, they stood attentive the best a lad could. Each adorned crude artisanal masks and wore both dense leather and fur to keep out the cold wind. Isle weather was fine, but the high speeds could make the wind unforgiving. Not to mention, all had their fair share of makeshift metal coverings and prosthetics. The scars and missing limbs or appendages of course, stood a testament to the love and care a mate receives for years on an Windeater ship. The Kaptan made his way to the crew, Tiddskriff was a terribly old gruff bastard with a great massive beard, he bore dark creases on his face from ages of riding the winds. He himself lost his left leg and right arm leading his former clan into the Great Shore Krab Wars. Sometimes he woke at night, fighting back the pincered horde with his phantom pain. His tenacity and reputation had earned him a prime seat in the young nations combined navy. He walked unevenly toward the crew, his heavy false leg thumped against the deck. While smoking his mighty krab-shell pipe, Tiddskriff walked by looking each crew member in the face as if to judge the man from head to toe. "Today we go all the way, lads, that's right, if no one told ya, now I'm tellin ya! This n that, you n me, today we sail for the Skaggarak Sea!" They shouted in unison "RAH RAH KAPTAN" "Now lads, I know you boys don't wish for this..." Tiddskriff began longingly looking Into his now emptied pipe. Unadmittingly, all Blackwind feared the Skaggarak Sea, perhaps the only thing they ever feared. In the adrenaline mind, at least over land you could crash, your death seen, beheld and remembered, but open airways? the sea? It makes one shiver. Tiddskriff looked at them almost thoughtfully. " ...But you special pups, this ones for home, for glory, we stand in a new place, the world is now a stage you sorry mates, and like it or not, I'll be damned if the best riders in The WHOLE BLOODY AIR DONT RISE TO MEET IT!" The crew began shouting and ran wildly to their positions, sails were set and rowers pushed the massive center mill that would power the archaic cylindrical turbines. Departing the dock, The Himmel-Vhalp was christened with the freshest blood stock of the last clans. Expand (1 free) east x 1 Expand west x 1 Research airship movement tech x 1 Develop income x 1 (+10) Results -14, -6, +37, +30 East and west the BlackWind sailed And et the wind with iron mouths. They tore into the land and sea Their swords and fingers living plows. But all the sea they sailed and saw And all the land they pillaged Was not to bow to their own hands. The sea remained their village. The drunkard poet kicked platters and racks of meat, scattering mugs of ale onto the ground. He received great applause and greater heckling, and he only got to repeat his suddenly composed stanzas once or twice before being knocked off onto his rear by flying produce. Kaptan Tiddskriff sat in a place of honor beside Rathraq himself. He poured into his ear the secrets of the open sky, the wagers one takes with the drafts and winds to wrestle speed from its grasp. (Naval Speed increased from 1 -> 1.5) He brought his hook arm down upon a crustacean. Its juices sprayed across the empty, red shells of its dead species. He yelped with pleasure, dipping the crab in thick, salted milk before gorging it. He cackled. At least the crabs still bowed to them, in a way. The sky was still their harvest land. (+5 Income) }} Turn 3 }|turn03| The reclaimed throne room of the citadel stretched hundreds of feet in either direction, alight by torch flame it appeared as an amphitheater to The Marauder Kings sovereignty and his chosen elect. Though united under Rathraq’s rule, the citadel was still home to a variety of marauder clans, each still holds different respects and cultural embellishment. For instance, is blood better drained from the neck or inner thigh? Maybe, well, the feel of steaming guts against ones forearms feels just as fulfilling. Such thoughts are paramount to the indicative nature of clan ancestry. In intense focus and silence, like the center of a star, Rathraq sits upon his throne.Today court is held with that of the strongest and largest clans, as well as the spiritual elite and their respective “diplomats.” To the King’s right stands what would seem a giant, bearing armor of black ash and steel, Blood Kommander Hanskt. He was once said to be the only thing to lock arms with the Lucky Duck, and live. As brothers the two are, icons of the revolution to unify the Blackwind. Creeping from behind Hankst, a cloaked figure who’s eyes shined a metal gaze whispers to the Kommanders ear, “Why waste time with these lot cowards? Ah, their petty imagined slights!” Turning his head downward, Hanskt’s voice sounded from his helm like it spurred from a fire kiln within the man. “You think yourself always wise, Vörmund? Hm...Rathraq knows the value of hearing voice and choice.” Hanskt looks briefly on Rathraq as if to study him, “More he reads the value of a weak mans need for the illusion of power...by letting the cowards speak, he grants this....Oh wise and strong king he is.” Vörmund frowned beneath his hood, “Look ere, big man increased his words hasn’t he?” Hankst chuckled like start of a great engine Vörmund snickered, “You wish he still held the time to spar don’t you?” Hankst, towering in comparison, looked down at Vörmund and down to his own feet. “.........every minute I exist, old dark friend.” To the center of the throne room, court ensued. Bervand held voice of the vorkidae clan, their disrespect of the gods atonement long a thorn in the spirits fathers collective sight. The warriors of the Vorkidae appeared nearly in full force. The king sat silent and attentive, court has been maintained for hours, the mere reason to pay attention is impressive, but pride calls each leader to Himself. Against his snarling monotony, Bervand’s tone arises, “...You fail us! You stay safe in your kingdom and no longer far to reach outside these walls! What can you claim from the wastes? You-“ “YOU SAY TOO MUCH” Hanskt shouts across the throne room, the tension throughout the multitude turns into something palpable. The kommander slams the bottom of his massive spear against the ground. He shouts, “DO YOU GIVE RIGHT TO CHALLENGE!” As if to interrupt, Rathraq places a hand extending from his throne to touch the Blood Kommander’s high shoulder guard. The room falls silent at this gesture. Standing from his throne, his golden & bronze armor shining, the subtle rustle of earny medals and armor clinked together. Boot by boot he thumped and clinked in silence descending the stairwell into the middle of the room. The Vorkidae’s clans brethren created a clear path of fear as Rathraq slowly paced towards Bervand. Stopping nearly 3 feet away from him, Rathraq halted, the outside marauders stood in a tight circle around the two. Rathraq lifted his head, slowly looking amongst the crowd, who looked back and basked before his golden skull helm. “YOU WOULD HAVE ME COWER!” “YOU WOULD HAVE ME END!” “I BEND THE WIND TO MY WILL, RIVERS OF BLOOD SPLIT BY MY HAND COULD WASTE CITIES YOU'RE TOO FEEBLE TO CALL YOUR OWN!” “OUTSIDE THESE WALLS, OUTSIDE THESE WALLS ARE MINE TO CLAIM!” He raised his hands and shakes his fists as mights of force. “I LOOKED UP FROM BLOOD PITS AND PULLED THE STORM FROM THE SKY!“ Bervand rushed forward, “what makes you be-“ While speaking Bervand grabs Rathraq’s forearm as if to express concern or power, but immediately a look of recognition turned to fear is his eyes. He has ‘Touched’ the king, T O U C H E D In a matter of what could barely be called seconds, Rathraq’s other hand grips about Bervand, he pulls his arm off as if it were a soft cooked bird, the bones and tendons cracking and popping, blood rushes from his side as he screamed in agony. The iron rush covered Rathraq and the surrounding marauders, some great and mighty looking on with folded arms as Bervand poured his lifeblood unto the dusty ground. Rathraq raise the spoiled arm, “IT IS AS AND WITH MY ARMS WE SHALL TAKE WHAT IS RIGHTFULLY OWED” The crowds began cheering, again their king shouted, “WHO WILL MATCH THEIR BLOOD TO MINE!” A roar went about the place, travelers of the waste could here the rushing sound of the chants from far off. In this moment the golden titan looks towards the eyes of an old friend by his throne and thinks of what two warriors from gladiators have become. ( expand 1-3, develop culture 1 ) Results 3!, +4, +6, -26 There is a saying amongst the marauder clans that goes like this: Blood Is Thicker Than Water; a brother’s blood is thicker than a mother’s water. You see, a birth is tiny next to living pacts made. Loyalty inherited is taken for granted. Loyalty earned is not lightly kept. The clans under Rathraq spread to the hills, bending the will of the wild folk and the other clans to their might. Soon, to the east and west, their banners hung from every hall, and in those places, no more blood was shed but in sport and in contests of right. A civil barbarism — as the more wizened and frail continuously chided — but civil nonetheless. It was their way: blood for blood. Expansions Successful! -10 Wealth. +4 Power, +4 Income, +4 Culture. But to the south, from the arm which the vorkidae were a part — the arm that indeed had been lead by Bervand before his just end — word altogether ceased to arrive. A single ship, weighted only with supplies, ate the wind back and forth, bringing a report every week before Rathraq and his trusted council. When the single ship did not show for days, having few ships to spare, they sent a company on foot to find it. A week later. The company returned. Tattered. All of them stripped of their clothes, walking bare to the wind. Counting the crew of the ship and the size of the company, they were fully halved in number, and all of them were drenched from head to toe in caked-on blood. Blood does not cake like that, not to skin. It must be mixed with pitch first. It cracked, and where it pulled away the skin, it oozed bright crimson onto the blackened blood. Rathraq and Hankst watched their arrival with grim calm, listening to their groans as good women lead them in like psychopomps guiding the dead. This needed no discussion. The message was clear enough: “You do not lead us. Your peace is over. Our blood will never mix again.” Failure! A vorkidae province has risen to the south. They have declared themselves separate, and declared you their enemy. }} Turn 4 }|turn04| Einar trudged through the snow, his cumbersome weight of furs and plate shifted awkwardly as his steps sunk into the dense white terrain. Cuffed to his left hand, he pulled a metal sheet behind him like a sled, a figure laid on top, bound and nearly blanketed by the snow. The citadel was finally in sight. Einar ungloved his hand with his teeth and stopped to watch the flakes fall, it was dropping quicker by the moment. A ragged voice shouted from the sled, “Ekkert brennur og kuldinn!” Einar turned his head back towards the sled, “The fuck you say, you old fuckin relic?” His voice spoke volumes of bitterness from the journey. The “passenger” spoke again, “Ekkert brennur og kuldinn...nothing burns like the cold!” Einar turned back towards the citadel, pulling the chain over his shoulder and moving the sled once more, “pfft, all you old spirit fucks, goddamn old tongue, goddamn old riddles! Old tongue? You fuck!” Wind Reaver engines could suddenly be heard, Einar’s ears pricked and his eyes scanned the horizon, whispering to himself, “must be the bloody fuckin watch.” He dropped the chain and waited. A few moments passed and three Reavers came to approach the duo. Einar’s winter trained eyes noticed the ships adornment immediately,”...King Skiffs.” He sighed as the ships halted and the air went quiet. Marauders began lining the side as a voice shouted from the main ship, “Where’s ya bloody fuckin’ ship, mate?!” Einar gazed up at the ship, at the men, it couldn’t be made out just who spoke. “Couldn’t make it,” he looked back towards the metal sled, “that’s a very sore wound thank you, you doss cunt!” Kommander Hankst came to the front of the ship, his build still massive and intimidating against the ship, “Einar the Kalt.” They stood silent staring at one other, eventually it broke as the two laughed, the tension dispersed pleasantly. “I trust you’ve got the man, after all, wouldn’t I know you’re the only bastard that could walk through this damned winter!” The men all laughed at this. Einar looked back at the sled and lifted the chain in the air as if to gesture, it clinked in the wind, “Three days, Hankst! One on my fuckin legs! I killed eight bloody fuckin vorkidae baps!” Einar shouted, his breath shortened, “but yes, despite the damn curses, the old Vorkidae Spirit Cunt has been rather comfy ere, isn’t that right?” Einar turned towards the bound spirit preist, the men aboard the ships laughed then quieted as if to listen. The captive only murmured and spat old tongue and curses, steaming up into the air, Einar yanked the sled “HALTU IFJANDUM!” The two boarded the ship, The Kalt and the Kommander sat below the ship deck. “Thank you for what you’ve done, Einar. Vormund believes with their spirit father this clan will heel.” Hankst almost sounded sentimental. “Is thanks now exchanged for gold? I fuckin hope not!” They both laughed, Einar crossed his arms and looked at the Marauder Kommander, “The other Kalts are coming, savvy, I serve the King, Lucky fuckin ducky, we’ll take the south and drink to get drunk, dream of large hipped women.” “Aye,”The Kommander said. “Before we reach the gates, that last word you spoke to the old man, what’d it mean?” Einar laughed, “Shut the fuck up.” 1x Develop power 3x Train marauder boyz Results +20, +15, -36, +13 Long trains of travelers hiked or trudged into Black Wind territory, Vorkidae — and the people of the clans beneath them — carrying their lives on their backs. The ones who came to fight showed the zeal on their faces and in the steam of their breath. They cursed and spat at the enemy’s name. The others bent their heads and knees. They were willing to work. All of them pledged themselves to Rathrak. Among the flighty are none of the vorkidae elite. Not one warrior among the ranks had chosen to flee. One man, even one of great and powerful spirit, does not alone lead a people. He is strung above the gates, left to struggle and become weak, to die and to rot for the carrion, and then to become red and then white bones, bleached by the wind and sun. Before he was done bleaching, the vorkidae would fall. (+4 Power in your home province.) {Development difficulty in the Blackwind’s home province increases from 65 -> 70.} (2 Armies Raised! -50 Wealth. Upkeep increased: 0 -> 20 Power.) {THE VORKIDAE RAISE AN ARMY.} }} Turn 5 }|turn05| “...The Crystal Moon in the eleventh house, A Lord of unity made brittle by death, Now Fatherless Lord that calls the wind, his wrath will swallow the sea...” -Script from The Regalikith, Fate of the Man-Made God Ruler and court strode about the challenge grounds of the citadel. Spirit Father looked on as Rathraq judged each warrior’s strikes alongside his Kommander. He thought of how far the two had come, he loved them as his sons, but the time of strife was coming where he could not guide them. The crystal moon was nearly here. Any time now, this kingdom would have to go onward alone, his old heart broke at the thought. The warriors looked savage and well, the time to lay waste to the treacherous fools of the Vorkidae was ripe. Their crude shields and swords clashed against one another, nearly hundreds pairing in furious combat. Marauder clans have always believed in live weapon sparring, if one cannot survive training, they certainly cannot take the reins of war. Kommander Hankst was in spectacular form, few could claim to ever enjoy the tenacity and virility of battle as much as he. A solid kick from the Kommander shattered a warrior’s shield. The sheer force cast his opponent violently to the ground, yet the poor soul soon discarded the mantle and gathered his feet under him. Hankst held up his hand to the warrior, the capability to recover, let alone remain conscious after such a blow filled the kommander with pride, and earned the man a moments rest. Spirit Father coddled up towards the group, his breathing shortened, Rathraq turned to the old man, “it’s good to have you here, I was worried it was time to throw you out with all the old women and weak men!” They both laughed, you could practically hear the King’s smile behind his golden skull helm. “I’d be around more... but you two...are simply just too small and weak to be seen with!” the old man joked, sending the men reeling. “Ahh, I see, I see!” Rathraq laughed. “But to serious matters, why I hailed, I know the death of the Vorkidae Spirit leader may have wounded you, you’ve taught them all, Father.” “This is true...” Spirit Father said wearily, “...But I sleep sounder knowing all the women and children are saved, those who fled from that cursed land.” “I see,” Rathraq said emphatically, “did he say anything of use?” “No, just of an old text..all of us guides know it...” Spirit Father began leaning against the stairwell of the coliseum, “The Regalikith, chronicles the...the story of the WindCaller, the Man-Made God, didn’t make any sense...until now.” Spirit Father began sliding downward towards the floor, Rathraq looked only onward at the combat, “Until now? What do you think?” He asked; only silence answered. “Father?” Rathraq looked over at the darkly robed spirit guide, now curled onto the floor. “FATHER!” He rushed to the frail figure, holding him in his arms, “FATHER, WAKE UP, WAKE UP! HANKST, VORMUND, HELP, SOMEONE HELP, HURRY! THE HEALER!!” Rathraq shouted in all directions. Hankst barreled through the crowds to find the grand healer while Vormund held close. Rathraq tried to hold the Fathers head upright with his hand, he shouted in panic. “DAMN IT ALL! HOLD ON! DON’T YOU LEAVE US YOU DAMN FOOL, VORMUND HELP, YOUR MAGIC!” Vormund yelled, “MY BLOODS TOO TAINTED RATH, EE COULDN’T TAKE IT!” A hand then rose to Rathraq’s helm. “...Would a King, cower before me...on my last day? Ha...a lucky duck after all...” Spirit father spoke raggedly, coughing between breathes. “The crystal moon comes, my son... It’s my time, convene with the gods..my staff...take my staff...” Rathraq shook his head and gritted his teeth, “No, no, no, no! we need you, Father, this place, war comes! We’re lost without your hand. You have no heir!” The Spirit Father placed his hand on The King’s chest, suddenly all of his medals seemed useless, “Strange things to come...remember my kindness...in your great judgement...” Content, the elder produced a bittersweet smile, “Ah...you once said our people...will know more than death and blood...it is with you my son...it was always you...” And so, the eyes of the Father locked with his King, his proudest achievement, and breathed his wind for the last time. A King wailed, and one by one all kneeled in silence, the sky gave forth to rain as Rathraq carried the Spirit Father in his arms throughout the halls and throughout all the kingdom, to a place of rest. 2x train/improve both land units 1x recruit an army 1x sacrifice action; have a good cry Results 24(-35), 10(-49), 95(+36), ~(~) Rathraq stood massive even without his war plate, yet his shoulders and his eyes were solemn, overlooking the gathering of his people from a balcony of the tower high above. Below, within the walls of the citadel, they beat drums and chanted songs. Drinks were had, Gods honored, and despite the surface savagery that the Blackwind seem to hone, men and women alike succumbed to fits of somber emotion, falling amongst their shields or their dancing partners with distant looks and tears. Lovers embraced. In the center of it all, a pyre burned, and the ashes drifted past Rathraq in the twilight of the eclipse. He felt empty. Soon, he would have to lead the Blackwind to war. Soon, perhaps not today but soon, he would have to address them as a nation, and for the first time in forever, he would lack The Spirit Father. His guide. It did not make him nervous, not as such. He just felt empty, empty of confidence and of words. He held a talisman in his palm, its neck-loop of sinew hanging from his fingers: two metal rings joined by twelve metal spokes. In the center ring, a disk of bone was forced within the metal’s grooves. One side bore the image of a sword, the other the inscription “ALU”. A bit of magic probably, or something else. He never had the chance to ask him. “Lord Rathraq?” A young voice arrived behind him. A girl, one of the closer cousins of Vormund, carried a basket of food in her arms. Whelming food. Cold slices of meat, of crab and of sweet fruit sliced upon a bed of green, not bruised nor blemished. Rathraq realized now how many days he had been without any of the comforts of the hall. He took a slice of boiled beef and dredged it through a bowl of crab fat, concealing his ravenousness with slow chewing. It was delicious. “Snotra, you are kind,” he said. “Give my love to your father and your cousin.” “I will, Lord Rathraq.” She tarried a little, not sure if she should put the basket down or hand it to him or simply leave. Rathraq smiled at her. “I have a question for you, child. Who is the Spirit Father?” Snotra blinked, nearly knocked onto her heels. “W-who is he?” “What is a Spirit Father?” he amended. Snotra thought about this, staring at the basket’s handle intently before looking up. “I don’t know. He’s a lot of things.” Rathraq’s patience with children was easily exhausted. But now, he found himself waiting intently as she reconsidered her answer. “Well,” Snotra said. “Dad says he’s a man, but a little more than that. He’s special. Spirit Father gave up his name when he was young. I don’t really know what that means, but it must be really hard to give up your name. And he’s our leader. I mean… you’re our leader in this world, Lord Rathraq, but he’s our other leader.” Rathraq considered this, turning the talisman over in his hands, the rings and bone cold on his flesh. Snotra cowered a little, her cheeks flushed. “Did I answer right?” “It was a good answer,” Rathraq said. “Thank you.” He took the basket from her, turning to look out again as she trotted away. In the morning, once the Spirit Father’s pyre had burned down, they would ride out to meet their allies camped to the East near the Vorkidae lands. They’d garnered more support amongst the clans there. It seemed a leader’s death only increased his presence in his people’s hearts. He held the cold talisman up, the Crystal Moon glittering off the inside of the rings and light seeping through the bone, showing him both ‘ALU’ and a sword interposed. His shoulders lifted. The Spirit Father was still with them, still leading them. He could feel it. (Army Raised!) (Upkeep increases: 20 -> 30 Energy per turn) (+50 Energy) }} Turn 6 }|turn06| Horns blared along the Vorkidae’s jagged barrier walls, a small airskiff could be seen crossing the land from the Blackwind army camp near the city. Drokkar, son of bervand, now clan leader of the Vorkidae, looked over the gate at the envoy. One of them could only have been Blackwind Kommander Hankst, the colossal gladiator warrior. The other figure was small and without armor, he assumed them to be a witness. Drokkar was disappointed, he had hope to meet with Rathraq, to confront the man that slayed his father at his feet before all council. (...Cut off the head all the same,) He thought to himself. The barrier gates opened as the Vorkidae envoy went out to meet the Blackwind. The wind whipped sand and the sun had not yet begun it’s rise. Torchlight and the chants of the Blackwind camp could still be seen and heard in the distance. Hankst and Drokkar met in open ground, both were prepared in full armor, as was rite. Their respective witnesses had shorn heads and wore only cloth and leather, eunuchs, with all the adornments of a life of servitude to their clan. As Drokkar approached, Hankst noticed a sword in sheath at his side. “You would bring a weapon, Son of Bervand? Defile tradition? I knew your people to be godless, but not without honor!” He shouted. “Honorless? I come to meet a warrior of your size and you claim it be equal ground?” Drokkar replied. The Vorkidae language was older than most and crude in nature, it gave Hankst pause. “It only betrays your fear, Vorkidae.” He responded. “And where hides your King, Blackwind? Afraid of his reckoning?” Drokkar asked. “...My King, Our King...fears no living thing. You court a war like an arrogant pup, and demand the presence of a king.” Hankst replied. Drokkar spit on the ground before them. “So, you are disposable instead?” He asked. Hanskt clenched his fist, the muscles in his forearms quivering with the effort, but his face and his voice remained collected. “I will not do this with you. I will only ask now, while we still can, let us have peace. Your clan has used their voice, no one doubts your bravery. Go back to your people, tell them only drinking songs will be song, brethren.” Drokkar grew angry and confused as he listened to the Kommander’s words. “Blackwind always cunning, I will not be fooled!" Drokkar shouted, growing more heated with every word. "You’d have me bend? Did your King offer my father this peace? Your army march three days with open hands? You’re afraid! No brethren of Vorkidae are cowards and liars!” Hankst sighed deeply, “Rathraq hopes you will end this. There will be no punishment for you and your people, but you know the rites, Vorkidae. A victorious clan will suffer no traitor. Will you have all your people spilled for your pride?” Drokkar stomped towards Hankst, seething with rage. “A lapdog you are! Return to your false king! I would abandon all men, all gods and all blood to see Blackwind fall!” Hankst contained himself, a stoic tower above the Vorkidae’s ferocity. “You’re blind with revenge, and your people will pay for it. I fought with your father, son of Bervand. He made his choice, and like him, pray we give you rest with the same honors.” Hankst stepped away from Drokkar, one foot pointing toward the airskiff. “Prepare yourself. You have until Sunrise.” As Hankst turned away, Drokkar pulled his blade. There was the sound of the blade scraping against the sheathe-leather, and the look on his witnesses face. As he pivoted back to the striking Drokkar, it slashed against his side. If not, it would’ve pierced through Hankst’s back and into his heart. The traitor lunged, stabbing again, slicing into his shoulder. “Sacrilege!!” Hankst shouted. Drokkar retracted the blade and struck once more, this time Hankst dodged and took hold of Drokkar’s forearm. With a jerk of brute force, Hankst snapped the arm and the blade dropped from Drokkar’s hand. Drokkar tried to pull away but Hankst still gripped his mangled arm, hammering his fist again and again into the Vorkidae’s face. When Hankst released Drokkar he fell to his knees, his limp arm dangling. “Your spirit will have no place of rest...” Hankst grabbed him by the collar of his armor. “...you will watch your people die..” with a grunt of effort he picked up Drokkar overhead “...broken and weak!” Hankst dropped him over his knee with a loud crack. Putting a hand to his wound he looked to the Vorkidae witness cowering and then down at Drokkar, gasping and rattling on the ground. "... but you Son of Bervand, will live a long time." -Develop Power And Income in Eastern Territory -Develop Income in western territory -Research Deep Sea travel boyo Vorkidae Rebels with all 3 units Results -12, +13, +8, +14 Hankst returned to camp after nightfall, just as the snow hardened into sleet. He brooded on the talk of the soldiers as he passed the outer fires. The news had arrived before him: there would be no satisfaction without battle. That was no shock; the men were all but sleeping in their armor, ready to march before dawn. But to know that Drokkar would break the sanctity of their meeting, that the Vorkidae would abandon the immortal nobility of the clans for a liar’s chance with a knife… As Hankst entered the circle at the camp’s innermost fire, a hush fell over the captains and lieutenants. King Rathraq’s hulking figure rose, silhouetted in flame. He crossed the gathering, heads turning to watch the King pass. Hankst’s heart grew heavy as he watched him approach, but as the King turned to embrace him across the shoulder, he saw the fire reflecting in the King’s eyes. Rathraq raised his fist above his head. “My brethren,” he said. “Leaders of the Blackwind. We have proven today that our conquest is honorable. Hankst has proven that for us, on the field against a dishonorable enemy. He has brought them low without stooping. How many of us would do the same as he? Would we retain our nobleness in the presence of worms?” Many heads bowed. Faces turned stoic, like stone. Much discussion had preceded Hankst, he could see it. Rathraq brought his fist before his chest, his muscles flexing into a vein-wrapped vice. “It is not enough to crush the armies of the Vorkidae now,” he said, his voice growing louder, booming against the tents. “They have sullied the spirit of the clans. We will break them as a prow breaks the clouds.” All shouted, raising their fists. Cheers rose in the neighboring tents, spreading across the camp. The bonfires flared. Income in the East Income in the West The night before battle is not the time for protracted celebration. With stirring hearts, all but the watchmen rested their eyes. They would march before dawn. Hankst heart was too much astir. He abandoned his tent, wrapping himself in a fur and finding his way back to the center fire. It was dying down. A barrel had been drawn from the edge, closer to the flames, and a gray man hunched over the barrel-top alone. When Hankst drew closer, he saw a square board lay across it. It was a board of six by six, each tile dug in to make a concave receptacle. The old man picked up four black stones from one of his line, and he dropped them one at a time, advancing in a snaking pattern toward the enemy line which stood on the opposite side: an unbroken line of white. “Have you ever played The Game of Forty Stones?” the old man said. “I’m sorry, elder. I have no interest in games,” Hankst said. “Ha,” he chuffed accusingly but kept his judgment to himself. Hankst hesitated to pull up a seat, wanting to warm himself by the fire unmolested, but the old man was too busy to pay him any mind. He played both black and white. After only a few moves, the board was divided a jagged frontline dividing the two colors. Each stone became precious, but quickly there were no moves left to make. The elder counted the board with a long finger, nodded once, then went about resetting it, piling the stones to their sides again. He did this with one arm. The other arm, Hankst remarked, was entirely missing. “You’re the Magwren’s Captain,” he said. “The last ship to ever reach the far sea.” “The last ship to reach it,” the captain said, “and to return.” “Then what is your place here? I see no post for a captain.” The captain shrugged. “Your King asked it of me. He wants my head. Stories, like games, might be things for the young and the old, but they still have weight in coffers, and mine are mine to give.” The captain’s hand lay next to the board. Hankst noticed it was set in reverse, with the black stones on his side. Reluctantly, he picked up four stones from their receptacle, snaking them across the board. history percolates into the present through many illuminated tongues, the future is more illuminated than ever. Secrets of The Deep are only just out of reach, and the arms of memory that so often recede are instead lengthening. }} Category:History of Al'jann